The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(26)

Matthew Harrington, an only child, was twenty-two, brown-haired and calm-featured like his mother, tall and solid like his father. His mind had been well sharpened by his studies at Oxford and in Burghley’s household this last year. Every morning at Ludlow, he attended upon Burghley and whichever council members were present that day for a sort of daily overview of events and expectations. Occasionally Elizabeth herself was present. As she was the day before their planned departure from Ludlow, when a breathless messenger interrupted their discussion on travel plans with a sealed missive for Walsingham.

Her chief secretary and spymaster had a face even Elizabeth had difficulty reading after all these years. But where a man could control his features, he could not always control his colour. Beneath the widow’s peak and pointed black beard, Walsingham’s skin grew ashen as he read.

“What?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Ireland,” he said. “Word from the Earl of Ormond at Kilkenny.”

“Surely the rebels have not so quickly regrouped as to be able to attack in the east.”

“No, Your Majesty. This is of a more…personal nature.”

She raised a single eyebrow. Walsingham was not usually so hesitant. “Do I need to read it myself?” she asked.

“I think, perhaps, we should excuse young Mr. Harrington first.”

There were any number of reasons why a member of Anabel’s household—and a young one at that—would be excused. Matthew took no offense, but there was a quizzical look in his dark brown eyes that Elizabeth felt mirrored in her own.

When it was just Elizabeth, Walsingham, and Burghley, she said simply, “Tell me.”

“Stephen Courtenay has been injured and four of his men killed. Not at Carrigafoyle—they were heading to Kilkenny with women and children who’d been taken prisoner. They were ambushed.”

“Will Stephen recover?” It was surprisingly difficult to ask. Life would be so much easier if sentiment were removed from the equation.

“It appears so. But one of the men killed was Edward Harrington.”

She heard Burghley’s indrawn breath and knew she was going to have to say something, but for just one moment she was twenty-four again and desperately trying to save her friend’s life from her brother’s wrath and there was Harrington, ready and willing to take orders from anyone as long as it meant doing what Dominic would have wanted. Elizabeth had ruled long enough to know how rare a quality that was.

Walsingham spoke again. “Shall I inform Lord Exeter?”

“No. Bring them to me, Dominic and Minuette both. I will tell them.”

I will tell them their son who I sent to Ireland is damaged in body and soul. And that the man they sent with him to keep him safe is dead.





20 September 1581


Anabel,

Mother, Lucie, and I arrived at Wynfield Mote last night. Father has gone on to Bristol with Matthew; they are prepared to take ship to Ireland if the boys do not soon cross. I am worried about Matthew. I was there when they told him and Carrie of Harrington’s death and he behaved precisely as I would expect. Every thought now is for his mother’s care and comfort. But he must have sorrow of his own. He would not speak of it. Not even to me.

Pippa





25 September 1581


Anabel,

We’ve had word that Stephen and Kit are expected in Bristol tomorrow. Your mother has sent a contingent of royal guards to travel with them as they bring Harrington home.

There was no question of him being laid to rest anywhere else. Whatever family he had when young, I have never heard him speak of it. It was from Wynfield that he set out all those years ago to protect my mother when the king burned her home—and it is at Wynfield that he must lie.

Carrie is secluded, and sees only my mother.

Pippa





30 September 1581


Anabel,

Today Harrington came home for the last time. The queen’s men formed a guard of royal honour, but it was my father who rode before the open wagon upon which the coffin rested. It was draped with the Exeter coat of arms and a single spray of late white roses that I knew at once Matthew had laid for his mother’s sake.

Stephen rode next to Kit, both of them flanking my father, and my worst fears were realized when I looked at Stephen’s face. It is not the physical injuries that are the trouble—though Kit confirmed that Stephen had only mounted a horse the last five miles, and that after a sharp disagreement with Father. By rights he should not be riding yet.

But it was the look of dread in his eyes that shattered me. He could hardly bring himself to look at Carrie. Thank heavens she knows him well enough to read his reticence for grief and pain rather than lack of caring. I don’t know about the others, but Stephen’s pain is as clear to me as though he were shouting it. As soon as the necessary business was accomplished, Stephen vanished to his chamber. Only Mother has been in there since.

I wanted to talk to Matthew, but other than a brief clasp of hands that I hope he felt as I intended, he has also vanished. So it was Kit and I, as it should be, who talked things out among Mother’s roses.

“What happened to them?” I asked.

Kit shrugged. “Ambushed in the night. Raining and men on horses…I got all that from the soldiers, you understand. Stephen will not talk about it. I do not even think he has told Father anything.”